Unfinished Stories, Unfinished Lives
by Penmaron
Summary: Aziraphale comes to the realization that no matter how hard you try, no one can remember everything and everyone.


Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from, but all I can say is that I hope this short piece says something about the power of memories, and the realization that no matter how hard you try, no one can remember everything and everyone.

This is unbeta-ed, because I couldn't wait for my long-suffering betas to get back to me before I posted it up.

Disclaimer: Aziraphale and Crowley do not belong to me. However, I'd like to lay a claim on Beverley, please.

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><p>He shaped the letters carefully, carving the words as a sculptor does a block of virgin marble – slowly, often pausing, and with infinite care. The words and sentences and paragraphs mounted, each page gradually filling as Aziraphale wrote through the afternoon and into the cold and clouded night. He had missed the funeral, he knew, and it had hurt that he could not be there. He would have liked to hear the family's words, to hear how his fond recollections differed to those who had known her well.<p>

But as he turned each page, as each letter dried, Aziraphale again realized that even an angel cannot recount a life – a full, human, life – without the words becoming inadequate and broken. Even Aziraphale, surrounded by centuries of lives, both written and experienced, could not complete his self-appointed task.

"Aziraphale?" He hadn't heard the demon come in, although he had dimly recognized the tinkling of the bell, and hesitant footsteps approaching. "What-" Crowley bit off his own words, and his face softened, his golden eyes filled with pity at the sight of the pen and the angel's pained expression. Once, he would have laughed at his counterpart's manic and inevitably abandoned attempts. Now, once again faced with ink-stained fingers and another shining, foolish, _human_ life extinguished, Crowley knew better.

"Who?"

Aziraphale shook his head, curls illuminated by the over-bright desk lamp. "No – _why._" His spine curved and his eyes closed, as if overwhelmed by exhaustion and defeat. "Crowley?" The two syllables were soft, uttered as if through a deep fog of memories. The demon felt something twist painfully even as he moved, drawing the pliant angel into his embrace. "Crowley, _why_?" Aziraphale said into his neck, clutching the too-sharp shoulder blades as the demon's long arms wound around his waist.

"I couldn't say." And he _couldn't_, really. There was no answer to why the words wouldn't come, why _this _human, why now, why Aziraphale could not help but mourn and, through his writing, attempt to steel his heart against the next human to be thrown across his path. The _why_ of the matter could never be easily placed or identified. Perhaps it just _was_, and simply would be, from the very spark of being unto the last, terrible End.

The angel sighed, and Crowley could feel the warm exhale on his cheek. He suddenly remembered the dozens of unfinished stories, unfinished lives, which Aziraphale kept on a darkened shelf, banished to the shadows of the angel's store and mind. The demon tightened his grip as he recalled taunting Aziraphale, laughing at his failure to recall every memory, every ounce of good and bad and humanity that those people had possessed.

"I don't want to forget." And that, Crowley knew, was an answer to a _why_. Perhaps not _the_ answer, nor the one the angel had been looking for, but one nonetheless.

"Tell me," he said, thin fingers rubbing at Aziraphale's tense shoulders. "Tell me, and I won't let you forget. Tell me, so this person can live on. Tell me," and here he cradled the angel's pale face in his hands, "and I'll remember for you."

Aziraphale choked a little, and swallowed hard. His hands were gentle in the demon's hair as he spoke. "Her name was Beverley," he began, "and she always worried about those she loved."

Gathering the angel and the small soul being woven by his words, Crowley closed his eyes, and allowed himself to commit this to memory, and to never, ever, forget.

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><p>Thank you for taking the time to read this.<p>

Also - as a little random fact - the word of the day on the online thesaurus is elegiac: relating to the mourning or remembering of the dead. Huh.

Reviews and constructive criticism are beautiful, wonderful things. Particularly about strange little stories written in the wee hours of the morning.


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